


Choices

by comebacknow



Category: The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types
Genre: Glade fic, Home, Multiple injuries, Thomas is a greenie, Thomas is actually a sarcastic little jerk, Tommy - Freeform, implied newtmas, injuries, its a look okay??, newt leans in a lot of doorways with his arms crossed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-06-12
Packaged: 2019-05-21 07:31:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14911043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/comebacknow/pseuds/comebacknow
Summary: It's Thomas' second day in the Glade and that means figuring out what job he'll be placed into.  The only problem is that Thomas isn't too keen on having a job there.  He doesn't want to be there, he wants to leave.Actually, there's one more problem.He's quite bad at most of these jobs.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> The entirety of this fic is being written over the course of several "word wars" (20-minute timed writing sprints). Also, I've created several prompts for it based on votes I've gotten from the others in my Word War group. This is technically outlined as a Choose-Your-Own Adventure fic where after people have votes on "option 1 or 2" I've taken the fic in that direction. It's a really cool exercise and I'm having so much fun writing it. Part two will hopefully be done over the course of tomorrow's Word Wars and that should be the end of it. 
> 
> This went on a lot longer than I expected hahaha
> 
>  
> 
> **Shoutout to Rach and The Eden Switch because I used a few ideas from her story regarding other Gladers and their positions and also the idea that Winston came up 2 months before Thomas. Have you read The Eden Switch? You SHOULD. Amazing Pre-Thomas Glade fic!!!!

 

            “Hey there, Greenie.  ‘Bout ready, then?”

            Thomas finishes drying the back of his hair with a towel and tosses it onto his hammock.  He turns to face Newt.  “Yeah, guess so.”

            Newt sighs, walking over to the hammock.  He picks up the towel and drapes it over the branch above.  “That’s how you get it smelling weird.  Gotta let it dry.”

            Thomas watches him center the towel over the branch, very much not dropping his gaze to the way Newt’s orange shirt lifts just a bit above the waistband of his pants.

            “Right,” Newt drops his hands to his hips.  “Let’s go then.  Show you ‘round a quick bit.  Get some food in you and then we’ll get started, yeah?”

            “Where am I starting?” Thomas says as they leave the cover of the trees.  He squints in the morning’s sunlight.  Other boys – Gladers, he reminds himself – are already bustling around.  Some pushing wheelbarrows, others digging something or other.  He hears hammers in the distance. 

            “Don’t worry about that just yet.  I’ve made a schedule up but we’ll get to that.  Gotta get some food in you first.”

            “Frypan?”

            Newt turns to him, eyes bright.  “You remember?”

            Thomas drops his gaze back to the grass as they walk.  Yeah, he remembers.  It’s one of the few things he does remember.  Nothing has come back to him except his name.  He was able to eye himself briefly in puddles in the Shower Block.  Chuck taught him how to use metals along the knives.  He tried, but couldn’t bring himself to care very much.  He wasn’t interested in himself.  He was interested in the things around him.

            He eyes the stone walls that encapsulated them in the Glade now.  Cracks and ivy winding their ways up and down.  Across the Glade he could see the large opening where the Runners have made their exit from the Glade, their entrance to the Maze.  He told himself he’d be awake to see them off.

            The hammock was more comfortable than he’d have thought.

           

            “Morning, Newt,” Frypan greets them.  “Greenie.”

            Thomas nods and then reminds him, “Thomas.”

            “Right,” Frypan laughs.  “Sorry.  You’re still the Greenie for the first month, though.”

            Thomas shakes his head.  “You call everyone Greenie when they come up?”

            “Yeah,” Newt says, slinging an arm around him.

            It’s initially comforting until Thomas remembers that he doesn’t know these boys.  He casually turns out of it to inspect the structure of the hut behind Frypan’s long table.

            “Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey,” Frypan says, putting out the wooden spoon in his hand.

            “I only wanted to see,” Thomas says.  “I’m not going in.”

            “Damn straight you’re not going in,” Frypan nods.  “Only my Cooks go in there.”

            “You’re in charge here?” Thomas asks.

            Frypan looks at Newt.  “You didn’t tell him anything, did you?”

            Newt sighs.  “Come on, Greenie.”

            “It’s Thomas.”

            Newt raises a brow at him, and Thomas wonders if he’s come off too aggressively.  He decides he doesn’t care.  He doesn’t know these boys, he doesn’t know this place.

            He doesn’t want to know them.

            Or it.

            He doesn’t want a nickname.

            He wants out.

            “Fry,” Newt says, not taking his eyes off Thomas.  “Put together some breakfast for me and….. him,” he seems to settle on.

            “You got it, boss.”

            Thomas turns to Newt now.  “Boss?” he feels his eyebrows flick up.

            Newt smirks.  “Not so much.  That’ll be Alby. Don’t worry about my role.  Today’s mission is yours.”

            “Role?”

            “Your job,” Newt says as he takes two plates from Frypan.  He nods off to the side.

            With one glance back to Frypan, Thomas jogs over to Newt and follows him to small bunch of rocks to the side.  They seem to have been sanded down flat on top – makeshift seats.  Thomas wonders vaguely if they were already that way or if the boys did it.  He takes his seat and a plate from Newt.

            “Everyone pulls their weight around here, Thomas,” Newt explains.  “We work together, we make this place run like it should.  It’s how we’ve lasted three years.”

            “Three years?” Thomas asks, looking up.

            “What then? Alby explained nothing to you?”

            Thomas shrugs.  “He did.”

            Newt watches him for a moment and Thomas can’t help but feel like an experiment.  Like clay in hands.  He’s not going to let these boys decide who he is.  He’ll make that decision himself. 

            The breakfast is hot, filling.  He’s thankful for that at least, but doesn’t let it show too much.  He keeps his face impassive like stone.  There’s still a lot to learn around here and, on only his second day, he’s not too keen on giving much else away other than his name.  Not that he doesn’t know much else.  But if they can’t even respect that, what else could he expect them to?

            “About done?” Newt asks.

            Thomas looks up for the first time in about fifteen minutes.  Newt sits across from him, leaning back on his arms.

            Thomas shrugs. “Guess so.”

            Newt’s jaw seems to work over some unsaid words that Thomas decides he doesn’t have the care to figure out. 

            “Alright then,” Newt nods.  “Let’s get on with it.”  
  
            Thomas nods and stands up.  “Where am I starting?”

            Newt’s eyes rove over Thomas a minute before shifting behind him across the Glade. “I had a plan, but I’m thinking I might change that up.” 

            Thomas watches as he glances over his shoulder back toward Frypan and the other Cooks.

            “What does that mean?”  Thomas asks.

            Newt looks back at him and smiles.  “It means you’re making me second guess myself.  Don’t make a habit of it.”

           

            Thomas follows Newt across the Glade toward a large tree that Alby had brought him up the day before.  Only this time, there are five boys scattered about on it.  Thomas vaguely thinks of ants climbing, but pushes the thought out of his mind.

            The sounds of the hammers echo through his head.

            “Gally!” Newt calls up, shielding the sun from his eyes.

            Thomas squints up to the second deck of the treehouse.  Sure enough, Gally looks over the edge and down at them.  His eyes find Thomas’ and, if possible, his scowl grows deeper.  “You can’t be serious, Newt.”

            Newt drops his hand and mutters something under his breath that Thomas can’t hear.

            Thomas watches Gally disappear back over the edge of the deck.  A moment later he appears again down the ladder and when he’s about five rungs from the bottom, he pushes off from it – boots landing hard in the grass. He walks over to the two of them and Thomas can’t help but greet him with his own scowl.  _This_ is Newt’s brilliant plan?  Start his day with Gally?

            “Gally,” Newt starts.  “You met Thomas, here, yeah?”

            Gally pulls off a set of gloves from his hands as his eyes shift to Thomas.  “Yeah,” he looks back at Newt. 

            “’Course you did,” Newt snorts.

            Gally sighs.  “What about him?”

            “I want you to keep him with you for an hour.  Let him see what this is about.”  Newt gestures to the tree.

            Gally squints behind him and back at Newt.  He waits a minute before turning to Thomas.  “It’s a tree. We build decks on it to look out from.  Any questions?”

            Thomas has a million questions, none of which have to do with the tree, and most of which have to do with this kid’s goddamn attitude.  He bites down and grits out a simple, “no.”

            Gally nods and looks at Newt.  “Look at that. Saved some time.”

            “Gally,” Newt sighs.

            “What?” Gally laughs, arms spread.  “You’re always going on about time management.  I’m just shaving some off. Why don’t you go shove him with the Sloppers.  I’m sure they could use the help.  They’re used to cleaning up messes anyway.”  
  
            Thomas runs his tongue along his teeth.

            “Slim it, Gally,” Newt says. “Do you need me to oversee your work again?”

            Gally rolls his eyes.  “Henry!” he calls back somewhere behind him.

            Another boy tosses a set of nails off to the side and jogs over.  “Hey, what’s going on?”

            “This is the greenie,” Gally nods at Thomas, arms crossed against his chest.  “Get him a pair of gloves. Let him foll-“

            “Gally,” Newt warns.  His tone is different this time and Thomas can’t help the shot of electricity that spikes through him.

            Even Gally seems to have swallowed his words and uncrossed his arms.

            Henry shifts his stance.

            “Show Thomas the ropes.  See if he’s cut out for this.”  Newt turns to Thomas now.  “You can lift, yeah?”

            “Lift?” Thomas asks.

            “Pick things up?” Gally clarifies in a tone that makes Thomas want to slam him into the dirt.

            “I know what it means,” Thomas glares back.  “I’m asking for a bit of context.”

            Gally shakes his head and tosses his hands up.  “Context. He wants shuckin’ context.”  He faces Thomas again, speaking louder.  “Pick up a goddamn board, nail it to the goddamn tree. Build a deck we can stand on without it collapsing beneath us, got it?”

            A hand lands on Thomas’ shoulder and sends something reassuring through him. “Give it a go, Thomas.  I’ll be back in a bit, yeah?”

            Thomas swallows.  He doesn’t know how to ask Newt to stay, how to tell him that he’s the only one he actually feels like being around here.

            He’s not sure why that is, but he pushes the thought aside and reluctantly follows Gally to the tree.

            “We’re putting beams up for the third level.  You think you can handle holding nails and handing them over when we ask?”

            “Think you can handle speaking without huffing your disgusting breath every three minutes?”  The words are out before Thomas realizes and now Gally’s got him pinned against the bark of the tree trunk, one massive hand against his sternum.

            “You wanna run that by me again, Greenie?”

            Thomas glares back at him.  There’s no way he’s backing down.  This kid is nothing to him, means nothing to him.  None of them do.

            His eyes shift over Gally’s shoulder to where Newt is walking off toward a lopsided building across the Glade.  There’s a shift in his steps and Thomas furrows his brow at the limp.

            “Look at me when I’m talking to you!” Gally snaps at him.

            Thomas pushes Gally’s hand from his chest, ignoring the level of difficulty.  “Yeah, yeah, I get it.  You’re strong.  Teach me how to nail a board to some wood, since you seem to be so friggin good at it.  Real proud of yourself, are you?”

            Gally glares at him.

 

           

            It doesn’t take long for Thomas to fuck up.

 

            He’s brought up to the second floor with Henry and Gally.  The other three boys wave at him from the side but he barely registers them.  He’s not interested in making friends, he’s not interested in learning who these people are.

            He’s interested in finding a way out.

            He’s interested in finding his way back home.  Wherever that is.

            “Greenie, pay attention.” Gally’s voice rocks his focus back to the task at hand.  “If you shuck up one thing, so help me God, you will be banished faster than you can say Griever.”

            Thomas doesn’t know what half these words mean and he honestly doesn’t care.  He doesn’t care about anything that Gally says.  He feigns interest as Gally points to a specific part of the hammer.

            His thoughts ricochet back to the Glade behind him.  He waits until Gally is hard at work, hammering a nail into something.  Thomas takes the opportunity to turn and look back over his shoulder.  The stone walls are still open in the distance.  The Runners will have been out in the Maze for nearly four hours now.  He doesn’t know what they do out there, how they find their way around.  He doesn’t know where the Maze leads.  All he knows is that it has to lead a way out of here. 

            His eyes slip lower to a small figure in the distance, darkened orange shirt contrasting the bright greens of the grass around him.  There’s still a slight limp to him and Thomas tries to remember if it was there yesterday or if he’d missed something overnight. 

            Thomas wonders how long Newt has been here.

 

            “Greenie, for shuck’s sake!”

            Thomas turns back to Gally.

            “I could smack Newt upside the head for this.”

            For some reason, the quip digs deep into Thomas’ gut.  “Shut up, Gally, I’m listening.  I know how to bang a nail.”

            Gally eyes him for a minute before tossing the hammer to the other boy – Henry, was it?  “You’re in charge of the hammer.  Don’t even let him look at it.”

            Thomas rolls his eyes, doesn’t care that Gally sees. 

            “You,” Gally jabs a finger into his chest.  “You hand him the planks when he asks for one, hand him the nails when he asks for one of those, and whatever else he needs.  You don’t touch anything that’s actually important.”

            Thomas smirks.  “So, I can touch you all I want then?”  
  
            Henry snorts as one of Gally’s eyebrows rise even higher.  “In your dreams, Greenie.  Get to work.”

            Thomas squints.  “I didn’t mean…” he shakes his head.  Not worth it.

            He turns back to Henry.  There’s an odd smile on the boy’s face that Thomas doesn’t like.  “I didn’t mean it like-”

            “Hey man,” Henry shrugs. “I get it.  The rough and tumble type.”

            “What are you even…?” Thomas shakes his head before he drags his hand down it.  “Can we just get this over with so I can leave?”  He starts to wonder how long an hour can really be.

            Henry snorts again.  “Hand me one of those planks.”

            Thomas turns and walks over to where another boy is shuffling planks along in the corner.

            He looks up at him, sun glinting off green eyes and dark lashes.  “Hey,” the kid says.  “Eric.” He puts a fist out and Thomas hesitantly pushes his own against it.  “Don’t mind Gally, he’s tough as nails – forgive the pun – but he’s a good guy.”

            “Yeah,” Thomas nods.  “Sure. Can I get a plank?”

            Eric huffs a small laugh before he turns back to the pile and lifts a slab of sanded wood.  He hands it to Thomas and Thomas’ arms buckle only slightly from the weight of it. 

            “You got that?” Eric asks.

            “Yeah,” Thomas heaves it in his arms again.  “It’s fine.”  
  
            “You sure?”

            “I’m fine.”  Thomas turns to walk back to Henry.

            “Greenie,” Gally’s voice is like its own nail in Thomas’ eardrum.  He closes his eyes and sighs.  “You drop that plank and make one scratch on this-”

            “Dammit, Gally, I’m not an idiot.”

            “Keep talking back to me.”

            Thomas bites down on his words, but then decides not to.  He’s over this. There’s no way he’s lasting a full hour.  He spins quickly – too quickly.  The side of the plank finds its home, smashing into Gally’s side.  There’s a muffled curse, a thump and then Gally is tumbling over the ledge of the deck.

            Eric calls down and Henry scrambles forward as Thomas hears something make contact with the ground below.

 

            By the time Henry returns with Newt, Eric has somehow managed to keep Gally from lunging at Thomas. 

            Even so, Thomas continues to clutch the plank in his hands.  He doesn’t look at the way Gally’s arm has something jutting against his skin or the way his other hand clutches the hammer hard enough Thomas is sure it might snap.

            “Gally, let _go_!” Eric yells for the third time, possibly fourth.

            Newt jogs over, a quickstep over some loose tools.  “What the bloody hell happened?”

            “This stupid shank doesn’t know how to look where he’s walking!” Gally bellows.

            Thomas feels the heat creep up along his neck but bites down on his teeth.  He works to not meet Newt’s gaze.

            Perhaps not the best first impression, but then, better than being the one with a broken arm right now.

            Newt clears his throat.  “Right, we need to get you to the Medjacks.  Eric!” Newt calls over.  “You’re up, take charge.  Keep this thing going.”

            Eric nods, sends out a whistle to the others, and turns back to the tree.

            Thomas turns, plank still in hand.

            “No, no, Greenie,” Newt laughs, a hand softly tugging at Thomas’ arm.  “You’re all done here.  Don’t need any more accidents, yeah?”

            Thomas looks up at Gally and swears he can feel the daggers digging into him from the glare.

            “Come on, Gally,” Newt nods, putting an arm around Gally’s waist.

            “I can _walk_ , Newt. It’s just my arm.”

            There’s an exchange here in the silence that Thomas doesn’t quite understand, but he doesn’t ask.  Right now, he doesn’t want to ask anything.  Instead, he focuses his gaze on the Maze doors instead. 

            The three make their way to a small hut in the far corner of the Glade.

            “I’ll just wait here,” Thomas nods to some rocks on the side.

            “No, no,” Newt laughs.  “You can come explain to Clint what he’s gotta deal with.”  
  
            “What he means to say,” Gally clarifies, “is explain why the SHUCK their Keeper is gonna be put out of commission for _weeks_.”

            “Gally, it won’t be weeks,” Newt sighs, pushing him through the doorway.

            “Do you see my arm, Newt?”

            “No, Gally, I don’t quite fancy looking at injuries.”  
  
            That caps that conversation.

 

            Clint tells Gally he’ll be out of commission for three weeks, at least.  He won’t be able to use it for three weeks after _that_.

            Thomas interests himself in a bucket of supplies, eyeing medical tape and syringes.  They all seem to be branded with the same four letters.  _WCKD._

“Interested in med supplies?” a boy asks.

            Thomas looks up at him.  “Not really.”

            “Shame,” the kid said. “We could use the help, to be honest.”

            “It’s his fault, don’t encourage him,” Gally throws over.

            Thomas makes a face at the kid.

            He smiles back at him.  “Steve,” he says, holding out a hand.

            “Thomas,” he shakes the kid’s hand.

            “I take it you won’t be helping out the Builders?”

            “Fine by me,” Thomas sighs, taking a seat on a small stool.  He eyes the curtain that Newt disappeared behind with Gally and two of the other Medjacks.

            “It’s alright,” Steve shrugs.  “It’s not really your fault.”

            “It is,” Thomas says. “And I don’t care. He’s a dick.”

            Steve snorts and covers his mouth with a hand.  “I mean, you’re not wrong.”

            Thomas smiles a little at that.  It’s not just him, then.

            Newt appears from behind the curtain then.  “Right, Gr- err, Thomas.  Gally piss you off then or did you just really not wanna be a Builder?”

            Thomas wonders if he’s supposed to laugh or if Newt is genuinely asking him.

            “Tough crowd,” Newt raises his brows to Steve.  “So Gally’s out of commission and I’m not very inclined to toss you to the group, so we’re moving on to the next job.”  
            Thomas sighs, dropping his face in his hands.  “And what is that?”

            Newt smiles down at him.

 

            “Now I know this is probably not the best idea,” Newt sighs, fingers rubbing his brow, “but something tells me you might be a bit more coordinated with someone who maybe doesn’t grind into you so much.”

            Thomas furrows his brows at the grass as he follows Newt’s uneven steps.  “You mean Gally’s not like that to everyone?”

            “Hardly,” Newt shakes his head.  “You must’ve done something to get to him.”

            “I barely even spoke to him.”  
  
            Newt tilts his head.  “Well, to be fair, you knocked him down in the ring.  It’s not often someone does that.”

            Thomas looks up to the side and catches Newt’s gaze.  “So he’s mad at me because I kicked his ass?”

            Newt barks a laugh.  “Okay, I wouldn’t go so far as to say you _kicked his ass_ , but you’re the Greenie.  You weren’t intimidated by him.”  Newt stops walking then and Thomas turns to face him.  “You’re different and I think it caught him off guard.”

            “I’m different?” Thomas shakes his head, not understanding.

            Newt only squints at him. “Come on, let’s see what Winston makes of you.”  Newt slings an arm over his shoulder and angles him toward a small hut off to the side.

            The smell hits Thomas before anything else does.  Rust, copper. 

            The sound of shearing metal on metal.

            And, like every section of the Glade, laughter.

            “Oi! Winston!”  Newt’s voice is tight as he holds his breath at the stench.

            A boy jogs over and Thomas’ eyes drop immediately to the knife in his hands. 

            “Hey!” the boy greets him.  “Thomas, right?”  
  
            Thomas looks up at him, brows lifted.  It’s a nice change, hearing his name from someone other than Newt, but it also stirs something inside of him that he can’t place.

            He sees Newt shift next to him.

            “You’re the new Greenie?”

            “You don’t have to say new in front of it, Winston,” Newt laughs softly.  “That’s kind of the point of the name.”

            “Whatever, man,” Winston shrugs.  “I was the Greenie just two months ago, so I know what you’re going through.”

            “You were?” Thomas asks.  Somehow, it felt like everyone had been here much longer than him.  It didn’t occur to him that some of them might still feel new, too.

            “Yeah,” Winston shrugs.  “Found my way around easily enough.  Fell into a place that was comfortable and,” he shrugs again, “here I am.”

            “Winston became a Keeper his third week here,” Newt adds, eyeing Winston.

            Winston gives a smile that’s half proud and half shy.

            Thomas flicks his eyes between the two before he shifts his stance and clears his throat. “Keeper?”

            “Head of each job,” Newt explains.  “Don’t worry, you’re not going to be shoved into that role quite yet, if at all.”

            Thomas doesn’t care.  He doesn’t care about being Keeper of anything, really.

            “Especially not here,” Winston eyes him.  “So, feel free to be really bad at the job.”

            “Now, don’t tell him that,” Newt laughs.  “He just landed Gally in the Medwing because he was really bad at Building.”  
  
            Winston claps his hands as he laughs. “No shuckin’ way!”

            “Thomas’ll be more than happy to share the story over some work, I’m sure,” Newt claps him on the back. “That is to say, get to work.”

            “True,” Winston laughs.  “Almost time to bring the chickens in.”

            “Chickens?” Thomas asks.

            “You’re not squeamish, are you?”

            Thomas lowers a brow.

            “Let me see your hands around a knife,” Winston flips something out of his pocket, seems to exchange it with the one previously in his hand with some flip in the air that embarrassingly makes Thomas flinch, and then hands the knife over, hilt first.

            Thomas eyes the scarred lines along Winston’s hand.

            “Maybe save the showing off, Winston?” Newt sighs.

            Thomas takes the knife and the handle seems to nestle itself against his palm as his hand curls around it. 

            “Nice, right?”  Winston asks.

            Thomas’ eyes snag on the way the light glints of the metal.  Something about it triggers an itch at the back of his mind.  _This isn’t the first time he’s held a knife like this_.

            “Come on,” Winston beckons him forward.  “Let’s see how good you are with it.”

            Thomas glances once at Newt before following Winston deeper into the hut.

            “So, the washing bins are over there,” Winston points with the knife he’s kept on him and Thomas wonders if it’s one he always has close to him and why that might be.  “Pack station there,” he turns back to Thomas.  “That’s where you can keep anything you bring with you that you might not wanna get blood on.”

            Thomas nods.

            “Newt? You coming along for the tour?” Winston tilts his head.

            Thomas looks over his shoulder at Newt.

            “Just seeing how you run things in your new position,” Newt shrugs.

            “Nice,” Winston raises his eyebrows at Thomas. “Pressure’s on for both of us, I guess.”

 

            Thomas goes through the motions, takes in the tour Winston brings him on, and nods in all the right silences.  But his focus isn’t in the blood-stained walls of the hut.  Instead, his focus zeroes in on the rigid hilt still in his palm.  He taps his forefinger against the cool metal of the blade, counting the time.

            It’s supposed to be an hour.

            It’s been seven minutes.

            “Alright,” Winston smiles, walking backward a bit.  “And back here is the freezer.  This is pretty much the important place, probably where I’d have you start.”

            “Interesting,” Newt mumbles.

            Thomas looks at him.

            Newt shrugs.  “Dan had the new Slicers start in the pens.”

            “Nope,” Winston shakes his head.  “They get too close to the stock that way.  Gotta see it afterward first.  The pens are for the ones who’ve been here.”

            “Who’s Dan?” Thomas asks.

            “Keeper before me,” Winston says.

            “And what happened to him?” Thomas asks.

            “Oh, nothing,” Winston shrugs. “Just didn’t want the Keeper position anymore.  Figured I could handle it.”

            “Seems to have made a good decision,” Newt adds.

            Winston smiles wide and Thomas wonders how it could be so easy for people to fall into roles here.  This kid claims to have been here only two months and he’s already found a position he’s happy to hold.  Did he even try to find a way out?

            “So, what do you say, Thomas?” Winston nods at him.  “Let’s get to work?”

            Thomas shifts his eyes around the hut.  “Guess so.”

            “Well don’t sound too excited, there,” Newt laughs next to him.

            Thomas turns to him. “I’m not.”

            Newt blinks.

            “Right,” Winston nods.  “Let’s get to work then.”

            “That’s my cue,” Newt backs up a step.  “I’ll be back in forty minutes. Try not to break any arms here, yeah?”

            Thomas turns.  He doesn’t know how to ask Newt to take him with him.

            “So, you’ll be here.  Basically, all you have to do is hand me the items whenever I call for them.”  Winston opens the fridge door.  “You’ll see each shelf is labeled with a number and each item is labeled with a letter.  Thomas, are you listening?”

            Thomas pulls his eyes back from where Newt is talking to a boy off to the side and turns back to Winston.  “Hmm? Yeah.  Letters and numbers.”

            “Okay, great,” Winston nods.  “So, hang here.  While you’re not handing things over, you can sharpen the knives.  This,” he pauses to heave a machine over on a wooden table, “is Jane.  She’s our sharpener.” 

            “Jane,” Thomas repeats.

            Winston shrugs.  “Hey man, I just go with it, you know?”

            Thomas shakes his head. “Okay.”  
  
            “Besides, if you’re gonna be here, you’ve gotta use names.” Winston reaches forward and lifts Thomas’ hand.  “What’re you gonna name your knife?”

            “You want me to name my knife?” Thomas asks, raising his brow.

            “Mine is Greta,” Winston lifts his.

            “Greta,” Thomas repeats.

            “You can have the day to think it over,” Winston shrugs.  “Besides, if you’re not cut out for the job, you don’t get to keep the knife anyway.

            Thomas lowers a brow.

            There’s a loud whirring then.  “Start sharpening!” Winston yells over the sound of the… the sound of Jane.  “I’ll call over when I need stuff from the freezer!”

 

            The hour feels longer than it should as Thomas continues to sharpen the blades along the spinning stone.  Sparks fly off and he tilts his head just a bit.  Despite the goggles, his eyes squint.  He pulls the knife from the stone and examines it.  When he’s sure the fragments of steel are gone and the blade is thin enough, he puts it into the metal bucket on the table with the rest.  His eyes shift up, as they have every time.

            And just as he has been, Newt still leans in the doorway with his arms folded along his chest.  He still talks to that boy, whoever he is.  Thomas hasn’t introduced himself.  Maybe he should.

            He lifts the goggles from his eyes briefly and rests them on his head and then brushes his hands on his jeans.  He takes one step forward when Winston calls down to him.

            “Thomas! B3!”

            Thomas eyes Winston, glances back at Newt once more, and then turns to the freezer.  He quickly finds Row B and grabs the bag labeled “3”.  He tosses it over.

            He takes another step forward, but then someone is dropping two knives on the table.  “Here you go, Greenie!”  
  
            He eyes them and then lifts his gaze to the boy.

            “Frankie, by the way!” the boy smiles.  “Welcome to the Glade! Didn’t get a chance to chat with you last night!”

            Thomas doesn’t really think that now could technically be defined as a _chance to chat_ either, given the whirring blade that Frankie is screaming over.  He nods.

            “How’re you liking it so far?” Frankie calls over again.

            Thomas really doesn’t feel like yelling.  He shakes his head and points to his ear.  When Frankie shrugs and turns away, Thomas lowers his goggles against and grabs the knife.  He glances back over to Newt who’s watching him now.  He lifts his goggles again, but Newt turns away to continue his conversation.

            Thomas doesn’t know what is pulling in his chest, what is clawing at him.  He moves to step toward Newt again.

            “Hey Greenie, quittin’ already?” Another boy yells back at him. 

            Thomas eyes the boy.  He wants to tell them all to screw themselves, that he’s not a Greenie but that he’s certainly not keen to be one of them either.  But he stays silent, not wanting to draw the attention.  Not from Newt.  Not if it’s causing a problem.

            He’s already broken someone’s arm.  The last thing he needs is-

            Thomas ducks his head in the nick of time as the sharpener’s friction rips the knife from his hand and it goes ricocheting past him.  He spins in time to watch it cut across Frankie’s bicep and there’s a yell that sounds over the sharpener and through the hut.

            Thomas’ heart pounds inside of his chest and any clawing has disappeared beneath it.

            Winston is at Frankie’s side in an instant and Newt and the other boy are shuffling down the hut just as swiftly.

            “There goes our record,” Another boy sighs.  “Way to go, Greenie.”

            Thomas looks up to where the kid wipes a small board clean of the number 87.  When he backs away, Thomas can read the words clearly: 0 days since our last accident.

            “Shit, Thomas,” Newt says, yanking the plug from the Sharpener.  The wheel slows to a tired spin and Thomas watches it while Newt moves toward Frankie.  There’s a mumbled, “stay here and don’t touch anything.”

            Thomas swallows hard.

            His eyes shift up and find the boy Newt had been talking to.

            He looks across at him and then offers a small smile.  He nods once, and it can be read as _don’t worry, it happens,_ but Thomas just turns away.  He doesn’t need the reassurance.  

 

            Thomas scratches the back of his neck as he ducks out from the Slicer’s hut.  The others didn’t seem upset.  Frankie is actually at his side now, laughing about it. 

            “I can’t believe it really went flying like that,” he laughs. “Like a damn bat outta hell.”

            Thomas eyes him.  He’s thankful that Frankie is laughing, he doesn’t seem to be upset about it, but it doesn’t mean Thomas is eager to continue talking about the moment.  Least of all in front of Newt.

            He’d rather the Second in Command not think he’s completely helpless.  Just because Thomas doesn’t _want_ any of these jobs doesn’t mean he wants them to think he’s _bad_ at them. 

            “So, Thomas,” Newt nudges him with an elbow.  “Clearly, you’re not meant for the Slicers, either.  I’m inclined to toss you to Tim and the Sloppers, but I won’t subject you to that just yet.  I think you’ve gotta have some skill to you and I’m determined to find it.”

            Frankie clears his throat next to Thomas.

            “How’s your arm, Frankie?”  Newt asks.  The question has more of a bite to it than concern.

            “Didn’t say anything,” Frankie shrugs.

            Thomas clenches his jaw at the awkward air around them.  There was an implication in Frankie’s cough and Thomas tries not to let his mind rotate on it.

            Luckily, Newt steps in front of him there, walking backwards.  “Well, Thomas, since you’re so keen on injuries, maybe you should just stay with the Medjacks, yeah?”

            Thomas blinks at him.  He shrugs.  “If you think so.”

            Newt nods before he turns and ducks into the med hut for the second time that day.

            “Another one?” one of the boys asks.

            “Sorry, Clint. Keepin’ you busy today.”

            “Frankie, what’s up?” another kid exchanges a handshake with Frankie.  “Been some time since you’ve been in here.”  
  
            “I’ve been avoiding Jane,” he laughs.

            The Medjack shakes his head before he turns to Newt and Thomas.  “And you again?”

            Thomas narrows his eyes.  “What do you mean, me again?”

            “It took us an entire seventeen minutes to finally get Gally down to sedate him, man,” the other kid sighs.

            “Thomas here,” Newt says, pulling Thomas forward, “has an attraction to the MedWing it appears.  So, he’ll be hanging with you for the next hour.  I figure it’s safe and he shouldn’t be able to hurt anyone here.”

            Thomas shrugs his arm off.  “It’s not like it’s intentional.”

            “I think that makes it worse, mate,” Newt smiles.

            Thomas sighs, eyes glancing to the back window.  The stone walls tower outside as the sun arches over them.

            “Look,” Newt sighs, voice lower.  “Just make it through the hour.  I’ll come get you for lunch after, okay?”

            Thomas nods.

            “Good that.”

            Newt ambles off and Clint and the other boy turn to Thomas.

            “Where’s Steve?” Thomas asks.

            “Snuck off to lunch,” the nameless boy sighs, “where we should be.”

            “Go ahead, Jeff,” Clint nods.  “I can patch up Frankie here, quickly.”

            “No, Newt will have my head if I leave early again.”

            Clint shrugs.  “Then don’t complain.”

            “Man,” Jeff shoves Clint to the side.

            “So,” Thomas says eyeing the hut.  “What do you guys do when you don’t have to patch people up?”

            “Whole lotta nothing,” Clint says, rustling through a crate. 

            “Usually they sit up here playing card games,” Frankie laughs. 

            “And you’re up here that often?” Thomas asks him.

            Frankie shrugs.  “Plenty of us are.  This is my… sixth visit?” he tilts his head at Clint.

            “This year,” Clint snorts.

            Frankie shrugs, but there’s a smile on his face.  “What can I say, it’s nice in here.  You guys get a nice view of the Glade, I can still keep an eye on the pens,” he dips his head down and Thomas follows his gaze out of the window. 

            “Thomas, what do you say?” Clint asks him.

            Thomas turns back from the window.  “About what?”

            “You wanna try stitching Frankie’s arm back together?”

            “Me?” Thomas asks.

            Frankie shrugs.  “You did it.”

            “And you trust me?” Thomas asks, raising a brow.

            “Can’t do much worse than when Carl did it.”

            Clint barks a laugh at some memory and something stirs from behind a closed curtain.

            “What’s back there?”

            “A monster,” Clint snorts.

            Thomas eyes him.

            “It’s Gally,” Clint shrugs.  “But if he knows you’re here, he’ll become a monster.  Better hope he doesn’t wake up.”

           

            Thomas sits through the full instruction from Clint.  He’s shown the different needles and what they’re for.  He’s instructed how to thread and sterilize.  He’s not sure it’s something he cares to do, but he listens and this time, he’s attentive.  There’s not much here to distract him.

            Not that there was last time.

            But at least now he feels like he can maybe fix something, like he can do something. 

            Frankie goes with it.  Sits on the stool talking away to Jeff about something else Carl did once upon a time.  But he’s got a peppy attitude about it and Thomas finds himself almost comforted by it.

            When it comes time for Thomas to actually get to work, Frankie turns to him with bright smile ever present.  “You excited?”

            “Excited?” Thomas asks.

            “Have you done this before?”

            Thomas almost says no, but then he realizes he doesn’t remember.  For all he knows, he might have.

            “Dumb question, I guess,” Frankie laughs.  “Go ahead.”

            Thomas glances over to Clint who nods at him.  He swipes an alcohol wipe across the scar.  The bleeding has congealed, but the open skin is still jarring when Thomas sees it this close.  He inhales and holds his breath. 

            He works in silence for the most part.  There are quick gasps of breath from Frankie, sucked through clenched teeth and once in a while his bicep twitches beneath Thomas’ hands.

            But Thomas’ hands stay steady and he bites down on the shocked smile that threatens to escape.

            “You’re not bad at this, you know,” Clint offers.

            “Maybe not,” Thomas laughs, snipping the last of the thread.  “Doesn’t mean I’m ecstatic about it though.”

            Frankie laughs.  “Usually, that would mean you’re good to be a Slicer.  Steady hands and all.”

            Thomas flicks his eyes up.  “Don’t think that worked out too well the first time.”

            “Fair point,” Frankie laughs.

            Thomas wipes his arm again with a fresh wipe.

            “Okay,” Clint nods.  “Could certainly be better, now that I’m looking at it.  And it’s a good thing Frankie doesn’t mind scars.”

            Thomas lets out a small laugh.

            “So he _does_ smile,” a voice drawls from behind him.

            Thomas turns to see Newt leaning in the doorway, arms folded.  Thomas stands up and pulls the gloves off. 

            “Well, let’s see,” Newt’s voice rings through the hut as Thomas tosses the gloves into the garbage.

            “Pretty much botched his arm,” Thomas shrugs. 

            “And then you fixed it,” Newt says as his eyes flick from Frankie’s arm up to Thomas. 

            “Might be cut out for it,” Clint shrugs, “but he doesn’t seem to like it.”

            Newt narrows his eyes slightly before turning away.  “Alright, well we can finish up here.”

            “Has it been an hour?” Thomas asks.

            “No, but if you’re not enjoying it, I’ll pull you early.”

            Thomas blinks.  “Alright.”

            “Come on, then,” Newt nods to the doorway.

 

            Thomas follows him out into the sunlight.

            “So, Medjacks? Not something you’re into?”

            Thomas shrugs and looks up at Newt. “Not really my scene.”

            Newt narrows his eyes at Thomas.  “And what is your scene exactly, Tommy?”

            The name spikes something deep inside of him and Thomas feels it not only in his chest, but at the back of his brain.  Like something is itching to break through.  Like there’s something that wants to be remembered.

            Newt raises a brow at him.

            Thomas shakes his head.  “I’m not sure.”

            Newt’s head tilts slightly.  “Well, we’ll keep going ‘til we find it then, yeah?”

            Thomas drops his gaze.  He wonders if he should tell him that this is useless, that Thomas won’t find a job he feels comfortable in, that this place won’t feel like home even if they shove him into their routine.

            “Hey,” Newt’s voice comes low and there’s a light graze against his hand.  “I know it seems dark right now, you feel trapped.  I know it’s a lot to take in, but you’ll find your light.”  Something flashes across Newt’s face then.  “We all do.”

            Thomas tilts his head but Newt only smiles.  Thomas thinks of how there are very few things that can classify as light and how, when you find something that does, you shouldn’t let it go out.  “Where to now?” Thomas asks.  “Sloppers, right?”

            Newt’s head lifts.  “Actually, Tommy, I think I have a better idea.”

            The name strikes its chord again, but Thomas smiles at it.

            “Is it alright that I call you that?” Newt asks, brows furrowed suddenly.

            “Yeah,” Thomas nods, playing the sound over in his head. 

            “I know people can be weird about nicknames-”

            “No,” Thomas says quickly.  “You can call me Tommy.”

            Something flashes along Newt’s features and Thomas wonders if Newt somehow has that same itch in the back of his mind.  That same itch in his chest.

            “Okay,” Newt says, low.  “Let’s continue then, Tommy.”


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of the Choose-Your-Own-Adventure Mystery game!! Hope you all like the ending!

            Thomas follows Newt into the shade of the Cafeteria, if you could call it that.  There are wooden tables strewn about with benches slowly filling with various Gladers.  Some Thomas recognized, others were faces that he’d never seen before.  Some distant part of him surprisingly wants to reach out, introduce himself.  After his interactions with Frankie and the Medjacks, Thomas wonders if maybe he could find some comfort here, find people he felt comfortable around.

            But then, another part of him pulls back.  He turns back to look out of the opening of the cafeteria.  The Maze doors still stand open in the distance.  He toys with the idea of asking Newt about the Runners, but after the talks yesterday around the bonfire, Newt made it clear that it didn’t seem to be an option, least of all for new Gladers.

            Part of Thomas doesn’t care.

            “Tommy, have a seat over here,” Newt nods at a bench.  “I’ll grab food for us.”

            Thomas lets the name sink into him as he sinks onto the bench.  He leans his forearms on the surface and keeps his eyes down.  Sure enough, more Gladers bustle in through the doors and it suddenly becomes clear that he and Newt won’t have the table to themselves for long.  He shuffles in the seat.

            “Hey, Greenie!”

            Thomas lifts his head up to a familiar face that he can’t quite place.  The boy stands tall with blonde curls and large eyes.  “Hey,” Thomas offers quietly.

            “Don’t remember me, do you?”

            Thomas’ leg bounces beneath the table. 

            “Zart,” the boy offers, holding a hand out.

            Thomas looks at it and then the boy before he finally settles on reaching his hand out as well.  He can put on the show for a bit until he finds a way out.

            “How’s the first day going?”

            “Second day,” Thomas corrects him.  It comes out harsher than he means it to and he feels a bit guilty about it, but he swallows it down.  “It’s fine.”  
  
            His eyes are on his hands where they’re folded against the wood of the table, but in his peripheral he sees Zart walk away without a word.  Yes, maybe that was a bit harsher than he should have been.

            “Arms,” Newt’s voice commands.

            Thomas pushes himself up from where he leans on the table and drops his arms to his lap to make room for the tray.  He looks down at the food placed in front of him.  “What’s this?”

            “Lunch,” Newt answers.  “And technically, you helped provide it.”

            Thomas looks up at him as Newt awkwardly shifts his legs over the bench and takes his seat. 

            “Working with the Slicers?” Newt clarifies.

            “I didn’t do much,” Thomas shrugs.  “I handed them food from a freezer.”

            “Still helped,” Newt says. “Remember that, Tommy.  Every little bit helps. Now dig in.  Enjoy what you worked for.”

            Thomas tries to offer a smile – and hopes it comes out genuine – and drops his gaze to the stew in front of him.

            “This is one of Frypan’s best dishes too, if you ask me,” Newt says, stirring his own.

            They’re interrupted then with a loud coughing sound across the cafeteria and they both look up to see one of the Gladers Thomas hasn’t met yet retching in the distance.

            Newt tilts his head.  “Odd.”

            Next to him, another Glader begins coughing as well, and they’re joined in the chorus by another retching sound behind Thomas.

            “Okay,” Newt says, “this is more than odd now.”

            Suddenly Thomas hears a stomping and turns to see Winston making his way over to their table.  “Hey, Greenie.  So, uh.  That B3 you gave me.  That was definitely B3, right?”

            Thomas swallows and tries to remember back to the Slicer hut.  He could distinctly remember the way Newt’s body curved against the doorway as he spoke to the other boy.  He remembers the way Newt’s leg was crossed over his other.  He tries to recall the layout of the fridge.

            “Because,” Winston continues, “I’m pretty sure you actually gave me B8. Which means everyone is eating food that is five days from being actually cooked according to our schedule.”

 

            The rest of the lunch hour is spent carting Gladers to the Medwing while Frypan angrily tosses out the entire three basins of stew he’d made.  Thomas mostly stands against the wall as Newt instructed him to and keeps his head down.

            “Wow, Greenie,” someone laughs as he helps carry a boy around his shoulders.  “Quite a first day!”

            Thomas considers reminding him that it’s his second day, but thinks it’d probably make it worse.  He doesn’t have to make the decision though.  He’s cut off by the carried Glader spewing out what’s leftover over the stew.  A bit of it splashes onto Thomas’ shoe and he has to fight back the urge to get sick himself.

            After the cafeteria is finally cleared out, Newt comes in, yanking off his orange shirt.  Thomas clenches his jaw and drops his gaze down to the tables around the cafeteria.  The place is a disaster.  There’s stew spilled everywhere - mixed with the insides of Gladers, overturned bowls, trays, utensils and more scattered about.  There’s an upturned bench off to the side and Thomas wonders how it even happened.

            Newt follows his gaze to it and scratches his chest.  “Yeah,” he turns back to Thomas, “Brandon tripped over the bench in his hurry to make it outside to spew out there.  Instead, he tripped over the bench, twisted his ankle, and threw up on himself.”

            Thomas swallows.

            “I’d send you up there to apologize to the lot of them for your dumb rookie mistake, but there is a bit of a more pressing matter at hand here.”

            Thomas raises a brow.

            “Time for your next job, Tommy,” Newt smiles in a way that unnerves him.  “You’re going to clean this mess up.”

            Thomas eyes the cafeteria.  “You can’t be serious, Newt.”

            “Oh, yes I am,” Newt nods.  “This is your fault, as it is.”

            Thomas huffs a laugh.  “Come on, Newt, make me follow Gally around again for an hour.”

            “Well, that’s not an option now, is it?” Newt slings an arm around his shoulder and Thomas’ heart pounds against his chest.  He’s acutely aware of the fact that Newt is still quite shirtless. “You put him in the Medwing.”

            “If you make me clean this up, I’m gonna end up in the Medwing.”

            Newt smiles at him and, this close, Thomas wants to reach out to it with his own.  He shoves the sudden thought out of his head and pulls his gaze forward.  No, that was an odd thought.  He doesn’t even know Newt. 

            Thomas ducks out from Newt’ arm.  “Fine, where’s Tim?”

            Newt’s tongue runs along his upper lip and finds a resting place in the corner as he smiles at Thomas.

            Thomas swallows and, again, averts his gaze. 

            “Tim’s in the Medwing.”

            Thomas can’t help but crack a smile.  “Okay, fair enough.”

            “S’alright, Tommy.  I’m here to help you out.”  
  
            Thomas feels his stomach twitch. 

            “I’d suggest losing the shirt.”

            Thomas looks up at him brow furrowed.

            “Less laundry for you to do later.”

            There’s something else behind the sentence, but Thomas doesn’t let himself think on it.  Doesn’t let himself play with other incentives that could’ve been hidden behind it.

            He reminds himself he’s surrounded by a disgusting mess.

            “Suit yourself,” Newt shrugs and moves further into the kitchen. “I’m getting gloves.”

            Thomas watches Newt disappear somewhere behind another wall of the hut to retrieve cleaning supplies.  Thomas runs his words over in his head.

            His eyes flick from his shirt to where Newt disappeared behind the wall.  He weighs his options.

            It’s in one swift motion that he reaches behind him and pulls the shirt from his back.  He fumbles it a bit in his hands, still contemplating what this might imply.  But then, does it really imply anything.  This is probably just normal.  Newt seemed comfortable enough walking in here with his shirt off.  The others probably do it, too.

            Now that he thought about it, Frankie’s shirt had been off in the Medwing, wasn’t it?

            Thomas shoves the thought out of his mind.  He doesn’t focus on the fact that he realized right away that Newt’s shirt was off, but not with Frankie.  It doesn’t mean anything, he convinces himself.

            He also convinces himself he’s being stupid.

            He shoves his arms into the sleeves again, but before he can pull the shirt back over his head, his eyes catch on Newt appearing from around the wall.  A box of gloves falls from his hands and he fumbles to catch the bottle of cleaning spray that also starts falling.

            Thomas raises a brow at him briefly as Newt straightens and clears his throat.  “Good choice,” he laughs softly.

            Thomas feels something blossom in his chest, and he convinces himself it’s not pride.  It’s definitely not confidence. 

            Maybe it is a little.

            He lets the shirt slide from his arms and tosses it to the side as he makes his way around another upturned bowl.  He reaches Newt and picks up the box of gloves from the floor.

            “Thanks,” Newt exhales.

            Thomas raises his gaze to Newt. “I’m still not going to thank you.”

            “Hmm?”

            Thomas looks over his shoulder at the mess behind him.  “For making me clean this up?”  He turns back in time to watch Newt’s eyes shoot up from his chest.

            Thomas feels his mouth curl up in a smirk.  “Should we get this over with?”

 

            Most of the next two hours is spent mopping up the cafeteria and righting benches.  Thomas barely feels the time passing.  Between stretching gloves enough that they snap forward toward Newt and ducking beneath towels thrown in his direction, Thomas feels as though he’d blinked and the room was cleared.

            “Well then,” Newt says, leaning on the mop he plants against the floor.  “Seems we got it done.”

            “Seems so,” Thomas says pulling his gloves off.  He looks up at the clock and raises a brow.

            “Yeah, Greenie,” Newt says as he pushes off the mop, “looks like you’re getting out of working in the kitchens.  Might be best after this debacle.  Don’t think Frypan’s too keen on seeing you, let alone working with you.”

            Thomas swallows and drops his gaze.

            “Ah, don’t feel too bad,” Newt shrugs.  “Once Alfred put sugar on the beef instead of salt.  It was…” Newt furrows his brow and frowns, “interesting.”  
  
            “Sounds gross,” Thomas laughs.

            Newt tilts his head.  “You’d be surprised.”

            “So, it’s still better than this.”  
  
            “Actually, yeah,” Newt laughs.  “Guess you’re holding the top spot now.”  
  
            Thomas sighs, but his smile remains.  “Not really having the best start to this new life.”

            “Don’t worry about it, you’ll fall into a place here.  We all do.”

            Thomas swallows as he follows Newt out of the Cafeteria.  They walk in silence for a few minutes until Thomas stops.  “Hey, Newt?”

            Newt stops and turns back.  “What is it, Tommy?”

            He tilts his head.  “I think… I don’t think I want to fall into place here.”

            Newt furrows his brow.

            “I just mean that,” Thomas fidgets a bit.  “I don’t think we should be stuck here.  I don’t want to be stuck here.”

            Newt’s brow raises and Thomas thinks he sees a hint of a smile there.

            “I mean, I know you guys all have your roles here and you’re big on that and have a routine and that’s great but, I just don’t think it’s for me.”

            Newt nods.  “I think I know what you’re saying.”

            Thomas waits.

            “You wanna be a Runner.”

            Thomas swallows.  “I want to find a way out.”

            Newt nods. “I get that, Tommy. But we’ve gotta get you somewhere else first.”

            Thomas furrows a brow.  “What is it? I’ll do it.”

            “Good,” Newt nods. “Let’s get you to the showers.”

           

            The water was soothing against his skin.  It isn’t really a hot shower; the water is still quite cool, but still it feels better than the grime that Thomas has been covered in.

            He cricks his neck under the water and runs his hand through his hair once more before finally turning the water off.  He towel-dries quickly and pulls the clean pair of underwear and jeans up.

            “’Bout done there, Tommy?”

            Thomas flinches at the sudden voice and turns to see Newt peering around the wall. 

            “Don’t worry,” Newt laughs.  “I wasn’t watching you the whole time.  Don’t get yourself all riled up.”

            Thomas huffs a small laugh and grabs his shirt from the bench.

            He walks out from the small makeshift stall and takes a seat on the bench off to the side.  He pulls on fresh socks and his shoes and Newt takes a seat next to him.

            “About what you said earlier, Tommy,” he starts.

            Thomas looks up at him, abandoning the shoelace.

            “I know you don’t much want to be here.  I get that,” Newt shrugs.  “But it’s really all we have.  This Glade? It’s our home.  Until we find our way out.”

            “And you’ve been trying?”

            Newt nods, working his jaw over something unsaid.

            “What is it?”

            “We’ve been trying,” Newt says, but his eyes are somewhere distant.  “The Runners try every day.”

            Thomas nods.  “I want to help them.”

            Newt turns to him.  “I think you’d be good at it, actually.”

            Thomas lets a small laugh out. “Even after I’ve botched nearly everything else today?”

            “Well let’s see,” Newt says a bit louder now, smile forming on his face.  He looks up as he thinks and Thomas’ eyes trace the angle of his throat.  “You put Gally in his place – quite literally, you managed to lose enough focus to hand over the wrong food, you cut Frankie and then gave him the most interesting patch-up I’d ever seen, you practically poisoned the entire group of us, and then you knocked me down in a pile of someone’s insides that I’d prefer not to think about.”

            Thomas snorts. “Still sorry about that.”

            “It was on purpose and you know it,” Newt laughed.

            Thomas shrugs.  “In fairness, you sort of deserved it.”

            Newt turns to him now and raises an eyebrow.

            Thomas shoves an elbow into Newt’s side and something crackles in his veins at the brush of skin against skin.  He refocuses and looks down as he shakes his head.  “Might as well just… I don’t know. What’s worse than a Slopper?”

            “You’ll find your place here, Tommy,” Newt repeats.

            Thomas looks up at Newt and suddenly finds himself comforted. He finds himself… content.  “How’d you find yours?”

            Newt swallows and drops his gaze.  “Took some time.  Some changes.”  
  
            Something in Thomas wants to reach out.  He gives in.

            His hand links with Newt’s and, despite only knowing him for two days, Thomas thinks it feels normal.  It feels right.

            Newt’s fingers curl around his in response.

            They sit there in silence for a while and Thomas begins to think that maybe he will find his place here.  Maybe, even if it’s not the Glade, he will find a home here after all.


End file.
